


Honeycomb

by sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beekeeping, Gen, Nothing Bad Happens to Animals, Polyamory, Slow Burn, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/pseuds/sunspot
Summary: Charles has a little farm. Life is pretty good.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, John Marston/Charles Smith
Comments: 33
Kudos: 43





	1. Sweet Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Tags may change!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A neighbour moves away.

Morning comes. Technically.

There's only grey-black outside the window so it definitely doesn't feel like morning. But the alarm goes off and seems insistent, so Charles rises and wriggles his feet into his slippers. No matter the season, if he's inside, his feet are cold. Sun warmed grass and dark stained deck boards that soak up the heat are the only things that seem to warm his toes up.

He peeks out into the yard and knows there won't be any taking his shoes off today. It's rainy and the trees are rustling in the wind; nothing sun warmed about the landscape.

Coffee comes first and he braids his hair tightly while he awaits for it to brew. He yawns and yawns until there's only a few mouthfuls of coffee left in his cup and his eyes finally open all the way. He can start his day.

The beat up radio on the counter lets him know the rain may finally let up in the late afternoon and while that's nice, it doesn't change the fact that there are morning chores.

Charles tosses his blue raincoat over his arm and picks up his battered old boots, calling for Sandy. He hears her stand from her bed in the den and shake herself awake, metal tags on her collar rattling together.

"Come on, girl," he urges when she balks at the open door. She's getting fussy in her elder years. She peers up at him with her biggest, widest eyes as if to tell him he's crazy, but she follows when he steps onto the porch.

She looks on, uninterested, while Charles breathes through his morning yoga routine on the deck, accompanied by the sound of raindrops on the tin roof.

When he's satisfied, he dons his coat and boots and heads onto chores.

The path to the barn is sucking mud from hours of rain, but the boots do their job. Sandy picks her way along the grass instead, still shooting him the occasional look to be sure he really wants to be out here in this.

Charles turns the goats out into the east pasture and the six of them take off running, far less precious about the rain.

Taima, his horse, snorts in her stall when he approaches, tossing her head happily.

"Hi baby girl," he says, stroking her face. He puts her in the pasture too and mucks her stall. He's refilling the water bucket when Sandy wanders into the barn and shakes herself dry right next to him.

"Thanks," he says with a scowl, but Sandy doesn't care. She leaves again, back outside to patrol, no doubt.

The chickens are all accounted for, his patch job on the fencing holding up well despite his initial reservations about it. Charles collects a few eggs into the basket by the door and gives Eva, the fattest chicken, a wide berth where she sits squawking on her nest.

He hears Sandy barking outside, raising an alarm. She's been doing it more often lately, her caution tied to her fussiness, no doubt.

Charles marches to the front of the farm property, out by the street, to see what she's barking about.

It's a big, boxy moving van parked between his place and the place across the road. Suddenly, Charles has a grin like the sun coming up.

"Hey now," he says, patting her head. She looks up at him with her worried eyes. "It's good news, trust me."

Standing for a minute more with a smile on his face, he spots his neighbour walking to the back of the truck with a pair of boxes. If he didn't have a hundred other things to do, he might consider offering his help.

Ha. No.

His… well, _feud_ is a strong word, but… yeah, feud, with his neighbours is kind of a topic of conversation around town and it has been since the family there moved in nine years ago. They were just a little farmstead, but the idiot used so many chemicals, it practically killed off everything in a hundred mile radius. It didn't help that the guy was an absolute asshole.

"Smith," the guy says, and Charles is sure he's not just being paranoid when he hears the derision. Sandy plants herself in front of Charles, sitting on his feet, eyes locked on the man with the moving box.

"Bell. Moving out?" His own tone is much more restrained. No sense in picking a fight when the guy is leaving.

"Finally leaving this shithole. Good luck with your… farm. Heard a bit about the guy who bought this place. You're just going to love him." This time, his voice is dripping with sarcasm. A little knot builds in Charles's stomach, but he tells himself Bell's just trying to get a rise.

"I'm sure we'll get along just fine. Come on, Sandy. Bye now," he adds mildly, letting the _I hope a snapping turtle bites two thirds of your tiny dick off_ go unspoken.

Charles gets his gloves and his hat from the shed and gets to the best of his chores: checking on the hives.

Straight Arrow Farms has twenty large honeybee hives (not that Charles ever counts them) on the property spread out around the two acres of wildflowers and buckwheat. It's not much, in the grand scheme of honey, but it's his passion. Spending time with the bees, hearing their sound, having them whizz by his face on their way to the trees and plants, brings him a peace nothing else ever has. He gets near to it on the back of a horse, but it's not quite the same.

"Hey, hey girls," he says lightly, easing the lid off the closest hive. The buzzing gets louder and he smiles without thinking about it. Everything's in order and looks good, so he carefully replaces the lid and checks a few more. 

Weak sunlight starts filtering through the rain clouds; the radio was wrong. He rolls his shoulders and looks up, watches for a moment while the sunshine fights the drizzle, throwing colours around in the sky.

The sun's coming out after all, the bees are healthy, and his shitty neighbour is moving far away. Charles couldn't be happier.


	2. It's Honey, Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles meets his new neighbours.

Three days a week, Charles goes to work in town. He likes it at the mechanic shop, though it makes for a long day, starting the farm chores before five to make it into town 'fore eight.

"Heard someone bought the old place across from you," his boss, Stuart, says.

Charles pulls his head out from under the hood of the SUV he's working on and nods.

"Yeah, not moved in yet though. Don't know who it is."

Stuart thinks for a second. "Janie, at the library, was telling me it was some biker guys from upstate."

"Bikers? What they'd buy a farm for?"

"Weed?" says James, the shop's apprentice. "Just acres of pot, as far as the eye can see, probably."

Charles laughs. "Yep, that won't be too obvious, stretching a mile down the road right along the fence. I've got all the woods on my side of the road."

"Well then, why aren't you growing it?" James says, laughing along.

Charles imagines the looks of disapproval from his grandparent's ghosts. "You want to be the guy living with a hundred thousand stoned honeybees?" He wipes his hands on a rag, getting grease stains on the rag but not helping his hands any.

"Seriously, they get high?"

"I'd have to do some research, but I highly doubt it. Now, can you help me with this?"

He'll admit to himself that some bikers living across the road as his only neighbours for miles in any direction probably isn't the best he could have hoped for, but chances are, they'd keep to themselves. Besides, it's just a rumour, something a small town like Big Valley is great for making up and running wild with. There's no telling who's moving in, really. He'll just have to find out in due time.

Turns out, he doesn't have long to wait.

The next morning he and Sandy are walking the fence line way down the far side of east pasture when a dusty red pickup truck pulls up alongside them.

"Hey there," says a man, leaning out the window. "Sorry to bother, but this is Prospect Road, right?"

"Sure is," Charles agrees.

The man ducks back in the cab and Charles hears a snappy "told you so!"

"No street signs," the guy says, turning back to Charles.

"Nope. A lot of them blew down or got stolen, county's not too fast at putting them back up. Your next crossroad thisaway is R.R. Four. Thataway, it's R.R. Six, or sometimes it's called Petal Lake."

"Mighty kind of you," the guy says. He touches the brim of his hat. "Hey there, pup."

"No worries," Charles replies with a smile. Lots of out-of-towners stop and ask for directions and he never minds helping out the polite ones, especially if they're nice to Sandy.

The truck does a u-turn and kicks up dust and sand as it drives away.

A few hours later, happy in the knowledge the pasture is secure, Charles returns back to the house. Sandy goes straight to her bed and curls up while Charles fills a cup with water from the tap.

He leans on the counter and sips his water and something catches his eye out the kitchen window. It's the red pick up truck in the driveway across the road. He'd thought he'd try to make a good impression on the new neighbours and it seems he had without even knowing it. Still, he'd get a few jars of honey and go over to welcome them properly. Charles downs the rest of his water and takes a deep breath. And realizes he should probably hop in the shower if he's really hoping to impress.

Clean and smelling fresh, with a clean shirt and semi-clean jeans, Charles grabs two jars of last year's honey from the pantry and looks around for something to put them in. Around the holiday season, he usually gets someone from the little cafe in town to help with the gift basket making. Sometimes he has leftover supplies, but he's not spotting anything.

He settles for wiping the dust off the lids on the edge of his shirt, and then inwardly curses his absent-mindedness. Charles shook his head to clear it. He's not going for a job interview, just to introduce himself to the new neighbours. Whoever they are, they're not going to be worse than what just left, he's sure.

Sandy huffs and sighs when he puts his boots back on, clapping them together out the door to get the worst of the mud off.

"Don't get up," he tells her. "You're staying."

She huffs louder, but stays in her bed.

"Well, what if they have a mean dog? You can't scrap like you used to."

Charles crosses the road with honey in hand and walks up the driveway towards the ranch house. He tells himself he's not feeling nervous.

There's a cat he doesn't recognize lounging on the deck, probably just moved in. The former neighbours didn't have pets and Charles always found that extremely suspicious.

Charles raises his hand to knock, but the door flies open before his knuckles make contact.

"Oh, jeez, man!" says a skinny guy startling in the doorway. It's not the man from the truck, Charles notes. The second thing he notes is the man has a face full of deep scars. Once his initial surprise is passed, he gives a quizzical look and Charles can tell he's quite cute.

"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you," Charles says. "I live across the road. Just wanted to stop by and say hey."

"Oh, that's… nice." The guy sounds a little apprehensive. "Arthur? Come here, it's the neighbour."

The man Charles recognizes from the truck comes up behind the beanpole. He's lost the hat and Charles can see more of his face. He's also handsome. Two handsome men living across the street. Interesting.

"Hey there, I'm -- Oh, hi, it's you. He gave us directions earlier, when you thought we were on the wrong road. Arthur Morgan." He sticks his hand out for Charles to shake and when Charles does, Arthur has a strong grip.

The first guy glares at Arthur. "We only drove around for forty minutes before we found the right place. Sorry for your shitty sense of direction."

Arthur just chuckles. "Shut up, we've got company."

"Charles," Charles says with a nod. "I'm across the road there."

Arthur nudges the other guy, who doesn't speak. Arthur nudges him again, harder, sending him lurching a step. "What?! Oh. Sorry, _hello,_ I'm John. Marston."

"Hey. Oh, uh. I brought you some honey. As a gift. I make -- well, my bees make it." Charles holds it up as an offering.

"Look honey, it's honey," John says, taking the jars and turning to Arthur with an embarrassing grin.

"Oh, for the --" Arthur groans. He elbows John again, but it doesn't seem to dampen any cheesy enthusiasm.

Charles notices that they're wearing matching rings. That explains bickering like an old married couple.

"Sorry about him; wolves ate his brain," Arthur says.

John immediately scowls. "Would you stop telling people that! And don't apologize for me. What the hell, man?"

Charles cuts in before the argument escalates. He gets the impression they could go for hours. "If you need anything, just let me know. I'm home most days. Or leave a note in the mailbox." He nods to his green mailbox on a post right across from their driveway.

John's still grumbling, but Arthur gives him a smile. "Nice to meet you, Charles. Thanks again for helping us out today."

"No, no problem," he says waving it off and retreating back down the driveway.

Sandy perks up when he comes back in the house, crossing the den to snuffle at his hand, in case he had found some treats. "Better than Bell," he assures her. "And no chasing their cat."

Of course, she makes no promises.


	3. Not a Sweet Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neighbours do favours for each other. Sometimes.

Arthur catches him at the end of the driveway a few days after their first meeting.

"Hey there," he says, jogging across the street.

"'Evening," Charles says. "What's up?"

"Wondering if you had a minute to help us out? Sorry to be askin', but John's hurt himself." Arthur looks down at his boots and then back up to Charles with a sheepish look.

"Oh, no, is he okay?"

"Damn fool," Arthur says, shaking his head. "We were moving some furniture and he tweaked his shoulder. He'll be fine in a day or two."

Charles nods, filling in the rest himself. "But in the meantime you still need help moving furniture?"

Arthur's sheepish look returns. "Can't get to the bathroom right now. _Someone_ dropped a couch in front of the door."

He follows Arthur across the street and into the house. From the front doorway, Charles can see through the living area into the kitchen. John's sitting at the table. He gives a weak wave and a grin. "Thanks, we really owe you."

"No problem," Charles says because it's really no problem.

Well, it's one problem.

The couch is really wedged up against the wall and it takes twenty minutes to wiggle it free without damaging the drywall. John stands on the edge of the action and tries to be helpful. _Tries to be._ Charles keeps biting down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing at Arthur, who is basically apoplectic by the time they've been at it two minutes. 

"If you. Tell me. To go 'up'. One more time," Arthur spits through gritted teeth. "The door knob. Is there. There is no more. 'Up' to go."

"But if you just go up a bit more, you can --"

" _John!_ Do not make me kill you in front of Charles."

When Arthur ducks down to adjust his grip, John gives Charles a little sly smile. Charles has to hide his face in his shoulder and pretend to scratch his nose.

"Thank you, honestly," Arthur says, when the couch is where it ought to be and his angry breathing has evened out.

"You saved us," John says, either solemn or fake-solemn enough that Charles can't tell the difference.

"Well, I guess that's better than thanking me dishonestly. But seriously, that's what neighbours are for." Charles wonders where the hell these guys came from. They're thanking him like he gave up an organ, not twenty minutes of his time. "You need help with some of these boxes while I'm here?"

There's a veritable wall of boxes piled along the front wall of the living room, blocking most of the window.

Arthur looks to John, who motions half heartedly with his injured shoulder. "Sure," Arthur says finally. "Wouldn't say no. You don't have to, though."

"Wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to," Charles says easily. He picks up the first two boxes. They're both labeled 'Jack.'

"First door on the left down the hall, the green room," John tells him. Arthur picks up a few boxes too and follows Charles down the hall. The green room on the left has a child sized bed in it and a small dresser.

"John's son visits us," Arthur says. Charles knows he's being watched closely for his reaction.

"Cool," he says. He has nothing else to say, really. The previous neighbours had a bunch of noisy , ill-behaved kids. One occasional kid is probably less likely to make trouble, or at least he'll only make trouble sometimes.

Arthur seems fine with his answer. Charles and Arthur move the rest of the boxes and John joins them in the living room with a glass of water for each of them.

"You're liking it out here?" Charles asks. He's never been great with small talk, but he tries.

"Way better than before. We lived in Saint Denis. Pretty busy. This is definitely more my pace," Arthur says with a nod.

"We're going to get horses," John says with all the energy of an eight year old girl saying the same words.

Charles expects Arthur to snap at him, but Arthur just beams. "Yeah, we are. Get settled in for a week or two, but then. Horses."

"Horses are great," Charles agrees. "Let me know if you ever want to go for a ride. Me and Taima can show you all the trails."

"You have a horse?" John asks, ill-covered excitement making his voice waver.

Charles grins. "I do. She's amazing. Come by and meet her, if you'd like. But speaking of, I've got the farrier coming first thing tomorrow, so I should get home."

"Thanks again, really, for all your help. In Saint Denis, we never even saw our neighbours and you've helped us out now how many times?" Arthur sticks his hand out. Charles thanks his lucky stars he's got the farm because honestly, the city sounds horrible. He shakes Arthur's hand, that strong grip again, and leaves.

Charles sees his neighbours a few more times in the next week, nodding or waving when he does. No one stops to make conversation or ask him for anything else, and he's got nothing that he needs help with, so it's easy to live and let live.

He's in his shed, reorganizing and shoring up a loose shelf when he hears someone call his name out in the yard. Charles sticks his head out the door to spot John.

"John, over here."

John approaches the shed. "Hey, sorry to intrude." He glances around, taking in the surroundings. "You have bees, right?"

Charles follows the line of John's gaze to the field, humming with activity, surrounded on all sides by his hives. "I do."

"I think some of 'em got loose," John says, looking uncomfortable.

Charles chuckles. "They don't like, live in the hive twenty-four seven. They're out all the time, looking for nectar, pollinating. S'where we get the term 'busy as a bee'."

"No, yeah, of course. It's just. Some of 'em made their own hive. In one of our sheds."

"A wild swarm? That's awesome." He realizes belatedly that most people still see bees as bugs, and bugs as pests or worse.

John grimaces. "A swarm?"

Charles pats him on the arm. "I should be able to move them. I was actually planning on getting a few more hives and a few more colonies. Not really the best weather for it, but if they're bothering you, I can move them."

"Thanks, we'd really appreciate it."

"After dusk is best," Charles tells him. "Needs to cool off a bit. I'll go make some space in the root cellar. I'll swing by around nine?"

John nods. "Sure. We definitely won't be going in to bug them. And did you say cellar? Like, you're going to bring them into your house?"

He sounds positively grossed out.

"Yeah, part of relocating a swarm. Gotta give them somewhere dark and cool to hang out in for a few days or else they'll go right back into your shed. It resets the G-bee-S." 

John doesn't laugh. No one ever laughs. God help him though, he'll never retire the joke.

"So, nine p.m.?"

Charles nods. "You got it."

"Thank you," John says, shaking Charles' entire arm.

Nine o'clock rolls around, the sun finally starts setting, and the hour is ripe for catching bees. For some reason he can't put his finger on, Charles changes into a clean shirt before he heads over with his equipment.

John's waiting at the driveway and walks with him back to the shed in question. Arthur's nowhere to be seen.

John opens the door. "No light in there," he warns. Charles just smiles and clicks on his head lamp, going in to see what he's dealing with. It's been a long time since he's had to relocate bees and while it can be time consuming, he'd rather help than see them destroyed. He's happy John came and got him. Lots of people wouldn't have.

What he sees in the corner of the shed… He turns his lamp back off, not wanting to disturb the swarm any more.

"What, you don't want to help?" John asks.

Charles takes the door from John, who's still holding it open and shuts it, tightly.

John's frown is halfway between disappointed and angry. Charles feels a twinge of guilt, but not enough to open the door again.

"Would love to help. But you don't have bees. You've got yellowjackets. And I don't do wasps."

"Wasps? _Jesus Christ._ Arthur's gonna have a fit."

"You need an exterminator or a few good frosts. We get nice, deep frosts here. It'll kill them in two rounds or so. I'd leave it if I were you. Just let them have the shed for the summer."

A little bummed and a little amused by the look of abject horror on John's face, Charles returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a swarm of bees in your shed or somewhere, call a local beekeeper!
> 
> If you've got wasps, godspeed.


	4. Maybe We Can Bee Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and John extend the olive branch of friendship in the form of beer and light arson.

There's a knock at his door the next afternoon as Charles is washing dishes.

"Howdy," says John, standing there, scuffing his sneakers on the deck boards. "Sorry, don't know why I said 'howdy.' We, me and Arthur, wanted to see if you'd come by tonight. We're having a bonfire. You don't gotta, just thought it'd be neighbourly to ask. Either way, if you see a fire, it's intentional."

Charles knows they're new to the area and probably don't have many or any friends yet, and it's not like he has plans beyond talking to his dog and maybe watching a movie -- if there's anything worth sitting through on basic cable. 

"Sure. Want me to bring something?"

"No, no, don't go to the trouble. We've got more than enough beer -- oh, unless you don't drink?"

"Nah, that sounds cool. I'll head over when I see an intentional-looking fire," he tells John, amused.

John nod, smile tugging at his scars.

* * *

It's a pretty huge fire. It would be worrying if he hadn't been doubly assured it was intentional.

Charles crosses the street and rounds the corner of the house with Sandy hot on his heels. The wasp-filled shed is fully ablaze. John stands next to it, looking pretty proud of himself.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "You couldn't just wait for a few months?" he asks -- a little in awe, a little worried John might be standing too close to the flames.

"Nope. We wanted to reclaim what is rightfully ours."

Charles laughs. John sounds triumphant, like he's won a heated battle instead of lit his own property on fire. " I don’t think you’ll have much left after the reclaiming is done."

"No, but from the ashes, a new shed will rise. Better. Stronger. With less fuckin' wasps in it." 

He motions for Charles to grab a lawn chair. Charles sets it a ways back from the fire, not nearly as comfortable so close to the inferno as John seems to be, poking at the crackling wood with a long stick.

Finally, John stops playing around with the fire and pulls up a chair next to Charles, much to his relief. Sandy puts her head in his lap and demands his attention, like she does of everyone she encounters. John scratches behind her ears and she climbs into his lap.

"Sandy," Charles says warningly.

"No, she's fine, I love it," John wheezes, only sounding a little squished.

"She weighs seventy pounds."

"Lighter than Arthur, and he sits in my lap all the time." There's a pause while John's brain catches up to his words. "Oh, no, I didn't say that."

"I didn't hear anything," Charles agrees. 

Arthur comes around the side of the house with his arms full of beer bottles and a fold out camping chair. "Didn't hear what?"

"Nothing," Charles says mildly, and John gives him a grateful smile.

Arthur chuckles. "Fine, fine. Johnny's got you keeping secrets already. Why am I not surprised?" He passes them each a bottle and settles his chair on the other side of Charles.

Sandy makes herself comfortable on John's lap and John shushes Charles when he attempts to coax her down again. "We're best friends," John assures him.

They watch the fire in amicable silence, sipping their beer and watching the shed fall to ashes and cinders. Charles still thinks it's a little overkill, but John's still looking pretty proud of himself.

"So... Charles," Arthur says, breaking the comfortable quiet of the summer night with what sounds to Charles like the obvious intent to be nosy.

He pauses, bottle halfway to his lips, feeling two sets of eyes on him. "Yeah?"

"How long have you lived out here?" Arthur asks.

No immediately horrible consequences come to mind when he considers if he should share. "Basically my whole life; Straight Arrow's been family-owned for five generations. My dad wasn't interested, so I took over from my grandparents."

"'Straight Arrow,' huh?"

Charles nods. "It's been called that as long as anyone can remember. Don't ask me why."

"Would have thought it would be something about bees," John says.

"Never used to be any. The bees are my… project." Another thing he doesn't have an easy answer for. He's not sure what possessed him all those years ago -- twenty-two, broke, and living in the dilapidated farmhouse that needed an easy seventy-five grand to be comfortable again -- to spend his meager savings on _bees_ of all things.

Arthur chuckles. "Honestly, never in a hundred years thought someone could make a living with bees."

"I don't," Charles says, a little shorter than necessary. Arthur's comfortable smile flattens, turns wary. "I have another job, too," Charles adds, trying to soften it. "Just a few days a week, to make up the difference."

"Ah, that's… That's too bad."

Charles shrugs. "It's fine. S'what it is."

"Where do you work?" John asks. Charles would be willing to bet these two don't have a ton of friends. This casual, neighbourly, wasp-killing shed fire is turning into some kind of interrogation.

"Kloppman's Auto."

"Oh, like… cars and shit?" John sounds unclear.

"Fixing them, yeah," Charles clarifies.

Arthur laughs, and before Charles can ask what the hell is so funny about that, he says "He's been trying to fix the same fuckin' car for what, John, eight years? Ten? I'm convinced the damn thing'll never run, if it ever did to begin with."

"1964 Pontiac GTO. She's _sensitive,_ " John explains. It's obviously a conversation they've had many times.

"Yeah, you know how women are," Arthur says, still chuckling.

Charles turns to John. "What's the problem?"

"All of 'em, or her main one?"

"Oh boy," Charles says with a wince. "That sounds… promising."

John scowls, more to himself than at Charles. "It's the wiring, I think. It's gotta be. I've changed damn near everything on her three times over now. If you wanted, I could show you. You like old cars?"

Charles doesn't have a particular fondness for anything in particular, but he likes the feeling that comes from finally getting something running again. "Sure, why not?"

Arthur pats Charles on the arm. "You're a braver man than I am."

"My boss loves old project cars. If you're really stuck, I'll ask him," Charles offers.

John beams, firelight catching on his smile. "Mighty kind of you, Charles. Mighty kind."

"No trouble," Charles assures him. And because turnabout is fair play... "So, what about you guys? What do you do for work?"

"Not a whole lot, right now. We left Saint Denis without much of a plan, truth be told. Hoping to get the barn whipped into shape and maybe take some boarders," Arthur says.

Hustle and bustle probably got to them, Charles figures, knowing how badly it would get to him too. The sounds of the crackling fire and the nearby song of crickets is the perfect backdrop to appreciate all he has.

"I think that sounds nice," Charles says. "I'd love a few more horses around, but with the work and the state of my barn, I haven't. Plus the bees keep me busy."

John laughs loudly, startling laughter from Arthur and Charles in response.

"Busy? Bees? Was that not supposed to be funny?" John says when he realizes they're laughing at him, not with him.

"Oh boy," Charles says, wincing.

John looks sheepish.

Arthur laughs harder and it's hard to resist. Charles laughs along, and even John gets sucked back in.

The fire's got an hour or two left on it at least, but Charles yawns too many times to be ignored. Sandy's sound asleep across John's lap, her head hanging over the fabric arm of the chair.

"Thanks for having me," he says. "Us, I mean. Sandy, come on."

Sandy looks at him from John's lap and heaves the deepest sigh she can manage before jumping down and making a show of stretching. She stops at Arthur's chair and lets him scratch between her ears.

"G'night pooch," Arthur says. "Night, Charles. Anytime you wanna come over, you're welcome."

"Thanks guys."

He walks home with Sandy at his side. "They're nice, huh?" Charles says to Sandy when they're out of earshot. "It's kinda nice, having friends nearby."


	5. Un-bee-lievable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles meets a 1964 Pontiac GTO.

An explosion of very blue cursing disrupts Charles’ quiet morning.

He opens his eyes, only halfway through his usual yoga routine on the porch, and doesn't have to look far for the source of the noise.

John's standing, grimacing, next to an absolute beast of a car in his driveway -- the fabled 1964 Pontiac GTO that doesn't run and possibly never did. Charles chuckles to himself and moves back into his standing forward bend. More cursing comes, but it doesn't surprise him the second or third times and he finishes his routine without incident.

Charles steps back into his shoes when he's ready for choring and has a brief moment of pause where he realizes how much he's been enjoying his new neighbours. When the former residents across the road used to interrupt his peace, he'd be pissed and grumpy all day. When John does it, he smiles. Quite the change. There's a fondness there he chalks up to friendship, which he doesn't have a ton of practice with.

He checks on the chickens who squabble and peck and get a little too close for his liking, but they all seem well and happy. He's rewarded for his care with fresh eggs, which he appreciates. The goats get turned out into the pasture, Taima trundling along behind them as they race ahead. There's a familiar, comforting hum from the flowers as the bees gather and pollinate.

Everything at Straight Arrow seems to be at peace. Charles smiles.

There's another fit of muffled cursing from across the road. His smile widens; John seems pretty determined and also probably pretty out of his element. Charles has a bit of time to spare.

He makes his way up the neighbouring driveway and catches sight of John's legs sticking out from under the car. He nudges John's shoe gently with his foot.

There's a strangled squawk. "Who -- Arthur?"

"It's Charles," he says. "Want me to take a look? I'm not a miracle worker, but I know some tricks."

"Oh, hey Charles," John says, wriggling free and standing, wiping his dirty hands on his even dirtier jeans. "Yeah, that's great. If you can give me any pointers, any leads, I'll owe you a million dollars."

"Nah," Charles says. "No need to pay me for my brilliance. S'what neighbours are for."

"Yeah, but… You've been awesome."

Charles, suddenly bashful, waves his hands. "Nothing, really, don't mention it. Now," he says, stepping towards the hood so he can get a good look.

John joins him, pointing out things he's fixed already and the things he's unclear about.

"You've done well," Charles tells him. 

A pink flush rises in his cheeks and John smiles. With Arthur's attitude towards the car project, John must really latch on to the compliment. Which Charles finds kind of endearing and then he needs to remind himself he's not supposed to find John that kind of adorable.

"Thanks. I'm not a pro, but I like tinkering with her. One day she'll run like a dream."

"Maybe," Charles says, trying to temper John’s seemingly sky high expectations. "This wiring is…" He whistles, low. "Spectacularly fucked up."

"But fixable?" John sounds so hopeful and worried, Charles feels like a criminal telling him otherwise.

"We'll see. Might need to get Stuart to come take a look." Charles leans in under the hood to get a better look, getting his hands into all the moving parts to see where the issues lie.

"So…" There's a noise, John scuffing his shoe in the gravel, no doubt while he tries to formulate small talk.

"So, you live alone over there, yeah?" John looks at him sideways while Charles focuses on the wiring in his hands.

"Yep. Me, Sandy, the critters, and the bees."

"No lucky ladies in your life?"

"No person, lady or otherwise," Charles confirms. 

"Oh… Must be a lot of work, all by yourself."

"It was pretty rough, the first year, but I've got a good routine going now. But I mean, come over any time and gimme a hand, I won't complain." Charles chuckles, glancing up at John.

John's smiling at him, soft and fond in a way that makes his skin warm under the attention, and Charles sucks in a breath. It's been a long while since he’d felt such a way, but it's no less familiar. A tendril of want stirs in him, like a flower unfurling in the wake of the warm morning sun.

"Sure, any time. Least we can do."

 _We,_ Charles echoes in his head. Because John's got Arthur and Charles is their neighbour-slash-probably-friend at this point. He stamps that traitorous want under his mind's boot heel and refocuses on the problem in front of him.

John stands close by and listens intently as Charles explains what he thinks is wrong with the wiring harness. At one point, Charles leans in, and John leans too, their hips bumping together.

There's a long pause while John doesn't move, doesn't speak, too long to be anything but meaningful. "Sorry," John says belatedly, stepping away again.

"Don't worry about it," Charles replies automatically. 

"Right," John nods, and Charles doesn't think much of it, even when he feels John still looking at him with no good reason to do so.

"See this, here?"

John touches the piece in Charles' hand, and touches Charles in the same movement, his fingers resting on his palm. Again, John lingers too long for it to be accidental.

Charles feels heat in his cheeks. John's flirting, he thinks. It's unclear if it's intentional, or if that's just the kind of person John is.

"Well, not much I can do without the parts and the tools, but I can probably come back another day."

John grins. "I'm happier about this than I have been in ages. Thanks, Charles, really."

"You're welcome," Charles says, returning the smile cautiously because John's is infectious, but he's still worried the flirtatious behaviour has been intentional.

"I feel bad," John says. "Like we're using you or something. You've been so generous."

"No sweat," Charles says and he means it. "I'm happy to help out."

Before Charles realises what's happening, John leans and kisses him. It's soft and sweet, and for a split second it's the nicest feeling that Charles has had in awhile -- warm sun on his back, a strong hand coming up to touch his neck…

That snaps Charles back to reality. He steps back, both his hands coming up in a protective gesture. "John, what… _the hell_?"

John's staring, open mouthed, and Charles can see how his lips are reddened and shiny with saliva -- he shuts down that line of observation immediately. John blinks a few times and then starts rapid-fire apologizing. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm -- shit, sorry."

Charles stares at him, acutely aware he can still feel the soft pressure of John's mouth on his, and that he's going to be feeling it for a long while.

"I'm an idiot. I… crossed my wires or something, misread… Did I tell you wolves ate my brain?"

"No," Charles says sharply, remembering the comment clearly. " _Arthur_ told me that."

"Ahh…" John puts his face in his hands -- whether he’s mortified, shamed, or perhaps both, Charles doesn’t know.

Charles hears his heart pounding in his ears, but forces out a civil 'good luck with your car," before he retreats across the road.

Once safely ensconced in his own kitchen again, Charles tries to relax. It’s no easy feat. There's a tangle of feelings in his chest and in his mind and they're at war for which gets picked apart first.

He won't dwell on his anger, he decides; it's not productive or healthy. And he's quite sure talking it over is not going to leave anyone feeling secure and happy. Pretending it never happened and keeping some distance between him and John going forward not only seems reasonable, it seems prudent.

There was only one thing left to deal with -- the heat that's pooled in his gut at the first kiss he's had in a year or more, sparking a hunger long dormant. 

A cold shower ought to help.


	6. Sandy Buzzes Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a problem he needs help with.

For two nights in a row, Charles dreams about the kiss. He dreams of touching, holding, a tongue tracing along his lower lip, a hand tangling in his hair, and through it all he sees the vivid image of John's face.

It's not restful sleep, and he wakes achingly hard and annoyed at himself beyond reason.

The third night he dreams of fire - a different type of all-consuming. It's a nightmare, sure, but it's a break. He wakes up in a foul mood regardless, and stalks through his morning chores before heading to work.

On the drive into town, his anger drifts towards melancholy, and by the time he arrives at the shop, he's just feeling run down and wretched. He wishes he'd called out and gone back to bed.

Luckily, changing the brakes on Mrs. Huang's ancient Honda Civic is just the right mix of physical labour and fiddly work to keep him distracted until lunch. He's chewing methodically on a piece of cucumber when Stuart breezes into the tiny break room.

"Hey man, your neighbour ordered some parts from us this morning; thanks for sending him my way. Sounds like he has a mighty fine project underway."

Charles nods, not wanting to get sucked into a conversation about it.

"You've seen it in person? He said you'd given him some pointers."

"I glanced," Charles says. "But you know that's more your thing. I just guessed the wiring was bad. It's a '64."

Stuart laughs. "Fair, fair. Well, when the stuff comes in, you can take it out to him."

"I'd rather not. I'm sure he wants to pick it up and talk to you about it."

His boss looks like he’s gearing up to say something, but then shrugs instead. "Yeah, sure."

Thankfully, Charles makes it through the rest of the day without any more unwanted thoughts. 

Back at home, he shoots a glance across the street, but no one's about and the curtains are pulled across the windows. Good. Even a cheerful wave at this point would be uncomfortable.

"Sandy," he calls. "I'm home."

She doesn't come and he doesn't hear her snoring in the front room. Not exactly unusual; she has access to outside during the day in spring, summer, and autumn, if she wants it, but she's usually here to meet him after work.

Charles takes a shower, ridding himself of the day's grime, and feels more refreshed afterwards than he has in a while. For dinner, he chooses a risotto, something a little involved, a step up from the basic salads and bread he's been eating recently. Being too grumpy to cook had its drawbacks, and namely, it's that he's suddenly starving when the grumpiness finally subsides.

As he sits down to eat, there's still no sign of Sandy and it sets off a pang of anxiety.

He glances between the door and the plate of food in front of him until he sighs and stands. He could always reheat it once she was home.

She's not in the yard, not in the flowers or the pasture. She's not in the barn, not lounging in the shade of the shed. She's not even wriggled into the tiny space under the front porch. It was her favourite place since puppyhood, a space he's blocked up countless times despite her dismantling every attempt and squeezing herself back under at the slightest opportunity.

"Sandy?" he calls. No response, no rustling at the treeline, no magical reappearances.

Charles lifts the latch on the gate to the pasture and ends up jogging the length of the fence in a brewing turmoil, eyes scanning both the woods and the road. He's sweaty and bordering on frantic as he backtracks along the trail just inside the treeline, still calling her name.

When he returns to the house, Arthur and John are standing at the foot of the porch, trading glances.

"Seen you running around. Everything okay?" Arthur asks.

"Sandy's missing," Charles says. His heart seizes a little to say it aloud. "Not like her to take off."

"Aw, shit," Arthur says, ruffling his hands through his hair and looking concerned. "Never?"

"Never," Charles confirms. He’d trained her very specifically to stay nearby after losing his last dog to a driver speeding down their quiet country road.

John frowns, then cocks his hip and starts issuing orders. "Arthur, you check our yard, then keep an eye out here to see if she comes back. I'll jump in the truck and go left. Charles, you go right?" He looks to Charles for confirmation.

"You don't have to, I'll be… I'm sure she's fine," Charles says, but he can hear his own desperation and knows it's pretty obvious to them that he's kind of a mess right now.

"Go on," John says. Arthur, nodding, is already jogging back across the road.

"We'll find her," John says. His hand hovers for a second in the air between them before he stuffs it in his pocket. Charles wonders for a brief second if he would have tried to touch him, had Charles been standing close enough.

"Thanks," he says, throat sticking on the word. He takes the three stairs up to the porch in one big step to grab his keys from inside.

The sun has officially set when Charles turns right out of his driveway and heads towards town, scanning the ditches and fields. It starts to rain, pouring heavily in sheets, which just feels like adding insult to injury, as well as making it harder to see. He tells himself over and over that everything's going to be fine, that she's just around the corner. But when he pulls up in front of the public library on the far side of town, he admits that maybe it won't be okay. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and wills himself not to cry.

It's pouring rain, but he watches the same fields even harder on the way back; he doesn't want to miss anything. Her beige fur shows up pretty well at night, but between the rain and the inky darkness, he sees nothing.

Pulling back into his driveway without her seems like a defeat. A wicked blow. Even though the summer storm's letting up, he's worried she's out in the rain, lost, alone, maybe hurt. He sees the lights of John and Arthur's truck pulling up behind him. John gets out, ducking his head away from the now drizzling rain. Charles gets out of his car, as much as it feels like defeat to do so, and makes the short dash to the porch. 

John follows.

"Anything?" John asks, shaking himself off like a dog and trying to wipe his wet face on equally wet hands.

"No." Charles doesn't ask him what he's seen, because John wouldn't have that grimace on his face if he had good news.

Arthur joins them a few minutes later, looking like he's swam across the road rather than walked. "I checked everywhere, whole property, then yours again, Charles. If she was around, any tracks are fucked now. I'm… Shit. I'm sorry."

Charles just turns and lets himself in the house. "Come on in," he says, though he wants to be alone with his stress and anxiety. He can at least offer them a drink, Arthur especially, caught out in the rain like he was.

Dinner's stone cold on the table.

"I… can I get you something? Coffee? Towel?" he starts clearing away the mess in the kitchen, scraping his plate into the garbage. There's a stone in the pit of his stomach and it leaves no room for hunger.

"Don't go to the trouble," John says, while Arthur tries ineffectually not to drip all over the floor.

"No trouble. I'm having coffee," he says, putting the water on to boil and opening the cupboard for the grounds. Charles already knows he won't be sleeping tonight, that he'll probably go back out looking again. Caffeine will be necessary.

"Well, sure then," John says. He pulls out a chair at the table and sits, folding his hands in his lap and watching Charles fiddle with the french press.

"I'm going to go change into something less wet," Arthur says. "It'd be a shame if I flooded your kitchen here. But I'll take a coffee, extra cream." He pecks John on the cheek and leaves through the front door.

Charles and John are alone in the kitchen. Charles is acutely aware of this and it makes him feel all sorts of confusing things that he doesn't want to feel, especially now when he's worried about Sandy. But the back of his neck burns under John's eyes and there's only so long he can feasibly stare at the coffee press before he's going to have to turn around.

"Hey, I, uhh…" John says eloquently.

"We _don't_ need to talk about it," Charles tells him.

"I wanted to apologize. I should never have --"

"No, you shouldn't have." He sloshes water into the canister with a little more force than he should considering it's boiling.

"I told Arthur." John sounds strained.

That, Charles wasn't expecting.

"Oh," he says.

"He wasn't mad. Disappointed, but… not mad."

"That's between you two," Charles says, still snappish on principle. He's not sure how that changes how he feels, if it changes it at all, but at least he won't have to contend with Arthur trying to take a swing at him.

Before John can say another word or Charles can think of another bit of snark, the door opens.

Arthur marches in in dry jeans, a damp tee, and a triumphant smile, carrying a gently confused Sandy who's not been carried anywhere in ten plus years.

Charles' heart drops into his stomach and he takes her from Arthur's arm and holds her close. She wriggles a little but lets herself be enveloped. She doesn't get what the fuss is, but she must feel the tension in Charles' arms.

"Jesus, where'd you find her?" John stands so quickly that his chair scrapes along the floor.

"Out cold on your side of the bed," Arthur says, still beaming. "Napping with Spunky. I think they're buddies now. She musta crawled through the cat flap."

"Fucking hell," John says with a grin.

"Thanks," Charles says, and it comes out shaky.

"Glad she's okay," Arthur says, patting his shoulder.

Charles finally sets her on the floor, but she sticks close to him, leaning her head on his leg, happy for all the attention. He makes the coffee, extra cream for Arthur, extra sugar for John.

Sandy climbs on the last chair at the table, sliding a bit on the cushion, and looks between the three men like she's waiting for someone to serve her dinner.

The relief of having her home safely washes away everything else he'd been feeling. He can't muster his previous annoyance, or guilt, or anger, or anything else. The chatter comes easily, talking about his job, the town, the people. Arthur tells stories of dumb shit John's done, and John indignantly recounts how Arthur was right next to him for the majority of those stories.

"Uh, John, I should say before I forget… Dutch called. Left a long voicemail." Arthur doesn't look very happy.

John groans and puts his face in his hands. "Fuck, are you… Okay, we'll… deal with that."

"All good?" Charles asks.

"He's… a friend. Really didn't want us to move, was kind of an asshole about it. Said he'd never speak to us again."

"Ahh." Charles is intensely curious, and John's explanation only raises more questions, but he's not one to pry.

When the coffee's gone and Sandy has long since gotten bored of people talking and gone to rest under the table, Arthur and John stand to leave.

Charles claps them each on the shoulder. "Thanks guys. I really, really appreciate everything tonight."

John nods to him, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips and Charles can honestly return it without feeling awkward. 

He follows them to the door, pleased to see it's stopped raining. The night air is crisp and clean. Arthur pats Charles' shoulder and after a split second of hesitation in his eyes, leans in to press the tiniest kiss to his cheek. "G'night," he says, ducking down the stairs after John in a split second.

Charles stares after them until they're swallowed up by the darkness.

"What is _going on?_ " he asks the empty air.


End file.
